Redemption for the Fallen
by xosidewinderxo
Summary: "Agent Romanoff. Come to watch the final moments of a dying deity?"


**Disclaimer: **I own neither Marvel's  The Avengers nor any of its respective characters. This was written for fun and to improve my own writing skills.

**Character(s): **Loki, Natasha Romanoff

**Rating: **T (character death)

**Prompt: **None

**Word Count: **3,260

**Setting: **The basement of Stark Tower

**Suggested Song: **Heaven – Otherwise

**Info/Notes: **I have fun writing character's dying. Sue me. Actually this was supposed to be just a short character dialogue study between Natasha and Loki and it sort of snowballed. Contrary to what it looks, this isn't the first Avengers thing I've written, I've been working on a possible multi-chapter story which may or may not get published. In the meantime, enjoy? **Edited**: Changed the rating at the suggestion of an anon-reviewer to reach more people. Story still contains the death of a major character. Read at your own discretion.

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Natasha Romanoff knew, better than most people, that Death was inevitable and unavoidable. She had stared Death in the face more times than she could count in her relatively young life and knew all too well that it would eventually come to everyone. She had seen things in her life that many people could only dream about, and many things that even the sickest and most twisted of minds could scarcely begin to conjure up. Death claimed everyone – from the tiniest of bugs that crawled in Central Park to the god she was currently on her way to see. High heels made no click against the floor as she walked towards the room in which his cell was situated. She moved with a fluent, fluid gait that rendered her soundless. Crimson locks tickled at her neck, swaying back and forth in rhythm to her hips as she moved. She wasn't wearing her suit that day, but a light pair of blue jeans that clung to every curve on her hips and legs, and a pale green blouse, two buttons open at the top because it was July and July in New York was hellish. Slender digits keyed in the passcode and she nodded to the two guards standing at stern attention outside of the room. The metal doors – four inches thick – opened to admit her and she walked into the room, staring in silence into the glass-walled cell.

The God of Mischief and Lies was lying on the bed at the far end of the cell, staring without seeing the ceiling. Natasha knew that he was aware of her presence, but she was content to merely watch him for the moment. It had been five years since he'd led the attack on Manhattan that had devastated the city and caused billions of dollars in damage and still unknown loss of lives. His punishment had been exile to Midgard, stripped of the vast majority of his powers – the Avengers had found him after one month, and in spite of Thor's insistence that Loki was no longer dangerous, S.H.I.E.L.D had locked him up. So here he had been, chained and collared like some rabid dog that someone had no money to put down humanely. Natasha sympathized with the god, knowing too well what it was like to be held against one's will, penned up to watch the world go by around you with only your mind to keep you any sort of company. She knew Thor visited his adoptive brother more often than not and was not surprised to see a token of affection – this time in the form of a small bag of white chocolates, for which Loki had a penchant for – sitting on the floor next to the bed. The god was gaunt and thin, looking unnaturally tiny beneath the S.H.I.E.L.D issued clothing he wore. Without the armor, he looked almost child-like.

He exhaled, slowly tensing the muscles of his stomach, and sat up, turning to face her. His visage was sharp; his jaws seemed more angular, his cheekbones looked like they could be used to carve diamonds. His eyes were sunken and lifeless, as though he could find no reason to continue on in this dull state he called life. They were as close to colourless as Natasha could see, pale and ethereal, grey flecked through with silver. All of the aspects that had made him appealing before now served only to make him look skeletal; the thinness of his countenance, the dark ebony of his hair, the lean strength in his fingers. Thor had told them all, when they began to realize that the God of Mischief was slowly wasting away, what happened when a god lost interest in life; they faded, wafting away into the Cosmos in a slow and lingering agony, finding death only when reason for living dissipated completely from their mental sphere. They had realized this was happening to Loki when he ceased to eat, refused medication that would have either eased his passing, or helped him to get well, and began turning away when one of the Avengers went to visit him. The Silvertongue truly was turning to lead, or perhaps ashes, as he stared listlessly at Natasha.

"Agent Romanoff." The god's once fluid purr of a voice was little more than a quiet rasp in his throat, barely loud enough for her to pick it up. "Come to watch the final moments of a dying deity?"

"You should let us help you, Loki." The Russian spoke in a whisper, coming to lay her hand on the glass, staring at him. It was clear from where she stood that he would not be able to stand to come to her. "We have medication, things that can lengthen your life."

He uttered an exhausted laugh that escaped his pale lips in little more than a scoff of breath. "For what point and purpose, my dear? I have nothing to live for, not anymore. Better to accept a slow death at my own hands than to be killed eventually by you and yours." Stubborn pride flickered in pale oculars, something very much like a challenge curling into the syllables of his articulations.

Black Widow sighed quietly, her breath misting the glass before she stepped away and keyed in the code to enter the cell. Her keen eyes, trained to detect the slightest of changes in facial expression and emotion, picked up on the tensing of his shoulders, the way the lines at his eyes went taut. He recoiled faintly from her, prepping himself for an assault, be it verbal or physical. To calm him, she held up her hands in a placating gesture before leaning back casually against the wall of the cell, crossing her arms nonchalantly over her chest. It was her way of letting him see that she meant him no harm. "At your hands?" She let her words carry themselves across the span of distance between them, watching his reaction studiously. The sharp line of his jaw went tense, his teeth grinding almost audibly in the silence following her words. "If you wish for death so badly, then why not allow us to take your life? It would be quick, clean, humane." She didn't flinch at the baring of his teeth, exposing the enamels in a furious snarl that brought back memories of the first time she had come face to face with the god, the contortion of anger that had twisted his fine features. Another time, another place, he'd have been on her; the lean of his body, the way he coiled as though he was a panther readying to cross the gap and set upon her in a frenzy told her that. But he was weak, tired, and not in any condition to fight back.

"Are you deaf, woman?" His voice was a throaty growl, guttural and filled with his hatred for her, for life. "What part of my words did you miss? I will die by mine own hand, and not by yours or your precious _Avengers_." The god cast her a sneer, his countenance marred with it before he swung back onto the bed. One thing arm was braced behind his black-haired head, holding his skull up slightly off of the pillow afforded to him by his caretakers. One long limb was crossed over another, his ashen gaze once more locking upon the ceiling above him; Natasha did not miss the way his pale silver hued orbs dulled in spark as soon as his words had died. His other hand rested over his stomach, accentuating how thin he had become in the past few months, refusing food, drink, anything that would have kept weight on him. Natasha also did not miss that his long, slender fingers were trembling slightly against the ebony fabric of his clothing. "You should leave me, Agent Romanoff. A dying god does not make for a good conversation partner." A hoarse chuckle was emitted from his pallid lips as he canted his skull just enough to lock those mercurial oculars upon her.

"Leave you to die alone?" Natasha pushed herself off of the wall and walked slowly toward him, keeping each motion casual and nonthreatening. "I think not; I've seen too many of my friends die and not been able to comfort them. We may not like one another, Loki, but no one, not even Earth's most notorious criminal, deserves to die alone."

"Cute. Amusing, as well, that the famed Black Widow would willingly comfort the person who threatened her life and successfully kidnapped one of her closest friends." Loki uttered an exhausted laugh, self-derisive and full of a bitterness that Natasha would not have expected.

"No one deserves to die alone." She repeated in a whisper, coming to sit down on the edge of the bed.

The deity's lips shifted into something like a soft smile, though it did not reach the lifelessness of his gaze. "'No one deserves to die alone.'" He spoke her words back to her in a mimicry of her faint accent so perfect that Natasha flinched slightly. The God of Mischief had a way of speaking that was almost hypnotic and he twisted her sentence into something that was mocking and cruel, construed out of context as to what she had originally meant for it to be taken as. A weaker person, in mind and spirit, more susceptible to the Silvertongue, might have fallen ensnared by that sentence, taking it to mean anything other than what Natasha had meant for it to. Loki knew that and the maniacal smile that wound its way about his thin lips proved it to her. "_Sentiment_, my dear. It will be the downfall of your kind one day, mark my words. That I will not be here to see it does not change the matter." He laughed again, though the noise was cut off by a groan of pain; his hand clenched into a fist on his stomach as somewhere deep inside him, agony blossomed.

"So you would prefer that I leave you here to rot away into nothingness, to writhe in pain until the end comes, knowing no one else would come? The others don't care enough to come and Thor is on Asgard. You're alone, Loki. You may deny it all you want, but you don't want to die alone any more than any other person – mortal or immortal – does. Why not open your heart to a little sentiment? Try for a little remorse, see if that helps at all?" Each word spoken was like a slow cut on the flesh, opening a painful wound and it was clear to the assassin that the articulations did their job. Loki turned his gaze from her, teeth gritting again against his will.

After a long moment in which the only sound in the room was the god's labored breathing, Loki spoke again. "You see, Agent Romanoff, that is exactly why sentiment will be the downfall of the human race. You think I want redemption? You think I want to be saved?" He chuckled quietly, a very sad noise that was low in his throat. "All I want is a surcease of my agony, of my pain, pain I have lived with for thousands of years. Death will bring me that; it is why I crave it, lust for it. Why should I live on in pain and sorrow, knowing I will never be enough for anyone, when the sweet embrace of Death is right around the corner?" Silver eyes moved from her, staring out of the glass that was his cell. "I can see him now." The voice escaped as a hoarse whisper, so quiet that had she been anywhere in the room other than right beside him, she would not have heard it. "Coming ever closer, waiting for the right moment. If you want to be here with me, fine, my dear. But please, do not talk to me of redemption. There is no redemption for a fallen god."

Natasha exhaled softly, seeing that there would be no talking him out of this self-wrought suicide. Even now she could see how he faded before her; his flesh grew paler and paler, growing to be almost translucent in the unforgiving lights of the cell. The vein and artery in his neck stood out in sharp relief against the almost glass-like quality of his derma and she watched in silence as the flow of blood began to slow. After a moment of hesitance, she reached out and took his hand lightly in hers, stroking the back of the appendage with her thumb. It was not a gesture of friendship or camaraderie, merely one of pity. For a moment, she saw the muscles beneath the clothing go tense, as though he was considering pulling away, but he relaxed and allowed the gentle grip. It was difficult to read him, to tell if the calm visage he wore was a mask to hide the fear behind or if he was truly that accepting of his fate. _It should not be the way of the gods to lie down to death. Even a god as torn as he is._ Her thoughts were her own, influenced by no one and nothing but a faint pity stirring low in her heart. She knew what it was like to be the one not good enough – to be overlooked. But unlike Loki, she had overcome it, the curse of her gender, and had prevailed. He, though, would die without ever knowing a bit of compassion, or understanding, or praise.

The God of Mischief and Lies inhaled slowly, his chest rising under the clothing he wore before falling as he exhaled heavily. He was exhausted, so very tired, and the idea of closing his eyes and just allowing his energy to flow back into the Cosmos was the sweetest idea that had ever crossed his conniving and calculating mind. All the magicks in the world could not save him, not when he had no interest in being saved – not even the meager might of the humans could spare him the coming death. The news that Thor was not on Midgard struck him harder than he showed, though it was probably as much a blessing as a curse. If anyone could talk him out of this, it would be Thor. But at the same time, if there was anyone he would want by his side while he allowed his energy and essence to flow out of him and back into the universe, it would be Thor. It was a painful process, slow and agonizing, as it felt that the very thing that made him, _him_ was being slowly sucked from him, like an animal sucks the marrow from a bone. Each breath was a trial, each stutter of his heart a reminder that the end was just a few moments away, dragged out as he weighed his final options. He could stop it, could find a reason – even a tiny one – to continue to live on in this world, but why? To entertain S.H.I.E.L.D and their lapdogs for a few more decades until the original Avengers passed away? No – Loki was no one's pet, and having been locked up for five years was five years too many already.

"Where will you go, when you die?" Natasha's quiet voice broke the comfortable silence; she was still sitting beside him, still holding his hand in a final attempt at comfort.

Loki might have shrugged, had he the energy to do so. "Hel, most likely. I am no warrior and my actions will not be overlooked when my fate is decided. I was never destined for Valhalla anyway." He chuckled again, much softer this time, little more than a stuttering exhalation that wheezed out of his throat; he was growing weaker by the passing second. There was no colour in his visage, not even a faint glow that came from blood just under the surface of flesh on the cheeks. It was accented by the light that glared out at them and he squinted as though it hurt his eyes. Natasha shifted so that her shadow fell across his face and something like gratitude passed over his lean countenance. Loki turned his face from her, lids falling down slowly over his lifeless gaze, even though he continued to breathe. But she knew that he had maybe minutes left to live and wondered what would happen to his body. She jumped when his voice broke the silence yet again. "Natasha…" Her brilliant green eyes widened in shock to hear him call her by her name, not Agent Romanoff or something derogatory. "Will you…tell Thor that I love him? That is something I should have told him more often. My brother." He uttered another dull laugh, but she knew in her heart that those would be the last words of the God of Mischief.

"Of course I will tell him, Loki." Idly, without thinking – because he had ceased to be an enemy and had instead just become a dying person in need of someone there – she reached up and moved a strand of limp ebony hair from his face, eliciting a tiny smile from the god. "Sleep now." She whispered it in the softest, most caring voice she had, letting her fingers stroke the harsh line of his cheekbone with all the care of a mother. Again, his lips weaved into a faint smile, one that stayed this time. Natasha felt the strangest sensation go through the room – it became very difficult to breathe and she felt almost like something had slipped into her chest and was tugging lightly on the strings of her heart, trying to see which one would break if tugged just so. Though an odd perception, it was not threatening and she felt no fear toward it. A sweep of something along the edge of her mind made her flinch slightly, staring down at the dying god before her and wondering vaguely if he had anything to do with it, or if she was merely feeling what happened when the essence of a god was stripped from their selfhood and was taken back into the universe.

Natasha never once moved her emerald gaze from the god as he inhaled and exhaled slowly, his breath starting to skip now and again. Her thumb moved slowly over his hand, while the fingers on her other hand stroked his face. There were no tears in her eyes, though she mourned in her own way. Loki was a tyrant, cruel and ruthless, but he was also misunderstood in a way she could sympathize with and understand. Living in the shadow of Thor had not been kind to him and being raised in a state where brawn triumphed over brain had forced his hand in a manner that nature had probably not intended for. The brilliance that existed in his mind should have been used to bring Asgard into a new state of glory and purpose, counseling his brother as king. The magic could have been used to build things, to bring about new ideas and ways of getting things done. But that was not the destiny of this man and it was something that was very sad to witness. She saw the moment it happened; his breath stuttered and caught in his throat, lips falling open for a moment as the tugging sensation increased to be painful; then he exhaled in one long motion, and everything stopped.


End file.
